Quite recently, on a night out, a man described himself to me as the ‘Belvita’ of men. The comment was intended as a chat up line – the success of which depended 1) on my propensity to respond to cheesy lines and 2) my liking of Belvita.
It is here I point out that I chose to return home alone that evening. Now as it goes, I am not impartial to Belvita from time to time – personally I am a honey and chocolate chip girl, but I do not fool myself that they are in any way a healthy snack. At face value, you can’t go wrong – they look nice, taste nice, give you everything you require from the breakfast/consumer relationship (18-20 grams of whole grain, 3 grams of dietary fibre and a good source of four B vitamins and iron! *All of this information can be found under the nutrition profile on the Belvita website.*) What they neglect to advertise so boldly is the equivalent of 3 teaspoons of sugar which no doubt contributes to that little energy boost. Like I say, I have no inherent dislike of Belvita, but think it should really be relegated to the biscuit aisle with the other sweet treats. I’d almost definitely still buy it. As for the guy, I wonder quite what he meant when he compared himself to the breakfast snack? Does he also slowly release over 4 hours? I imagine he was in fact trying to suggest he would be good for me – when in fact, all he would be was just another naughty little biscuit.
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A few days ago I was lucky enough to attend a gala dinner at The Globe Theatre. It was a beautiful and lavish affair but my favourite part was – unsurprisingly – the historical exhibition outlining the role the Globe played in Elizabethan and Jacobean culture, right up to modern day. The winding streets of London Bridge, Southwark, then just over the river to the Tower and the City are some of my favourite to walk – they are filled with the blue plaques of English Heritage and I derive great satisfaction from recalling the events that occurred on these very streets. But what of the streets themselves? Or more specifically, the street names. To quote the good bard himself, “What’s in a name?” I’m quite happy to admit that this is lowbrow humour masquerading as highbrow education however I must stress that all content here has a factual grounding; so let’s jump straight in with Cock Lane, EC1. Cock Lane- EC1 Yes, that’s right; tucked away in the streets of Smithfield (the site of many a gruesome medieval execution!) you will find Cock Lane – or Cokkes Lane as it was known back in the day. And quite appropriately named it is too, as it was the site of some very popular legal brothels. It’s not fancy, but I suppose it is an example of some very straight to the point marketing! It even has its own ghost called… um… well… ok so the ghost is called “Scratching Fanny”. Yes. Now I must ask you to remove your head from the gutter – where I admit I purposely led it – and let me explain that Fanny was the name of a woman who died from smallpox, and the way she made “contact” with the living was by scratching the walls. Not so funny now, is it? (Ok, it’s still funny). Well let us leave the City for now (we can go via Back Passage if you so wish…) and head somewhere a little more refined. Ah yes, W1. Mayfair. Swallow Street – W1 So you see where we’re going with this, yes? First mentioned in the record books in 1671, Swallow Street found fame through shall we say… oral tradition. This continued right up until the 1970s when it’s nightclubs were notorious haunts of prostitutes – and a rival to the East London “Hookers Lane”. Now shall we head east again to visit a street a little less pornographically based…? Cumming Street – N1 Well, as we’re passing through central London, it seems only appropriate to make a quick stop off at Cumming Street in the King’s Cross area. I know I said we were heading to a less risqué part of town but with King’s Cross being at the heart of London’s travel network, it was quite necessary to travel through it – as many did and still do today. Industrialization and the development of the canal and railway was key to the expansion of this area, and with increased commerce came a swell in trade of another kind. Many a service would be offered here for years to come but the regeneration and gentrification of King’s Cross in the mid-1990s saw an end to the infamous red light district. Shall we move on? I hope you are enjoying the tour. Sherborne Lane – EC4 Sounds pretty tame, doesn’t it? Well, it did have to be softened a little in order to comply with contemporary sensibilities. Back in the 1200s though, had you been travelling through the Bank area you may have found yourself on Shittborwelane, later known as Shiteburn Lane, a particularly fetid street which was more akin to a cesspit and was basically a track of compacted human, animal and general rotting waste. Today, should you have reason to visit Sherborne Lane, you will find it is now mostly investment banks and a Travelodge; but at least the street is a bit cleaner. Now let us meander down Puppekirty Lane (Poke Skirt Lane) as we venture on to our final destination. We’ve come this far together, and where else could we end our little tour than the legendary Gropecunt Lane. If you are of a milder disposition – well frankly I’m surprised you’ve followed me this far – but nonetheless, I wish no offence. My only hope is to raise a smile as you learn a little more about English heritage and the scandalous streets so many still walk, entirely unaware of their previous purpose. Of course, you will find no sign post directing you to this part of town, but unconsciously you may one day find yourself on St Pancras, Soper Lane just off Cheapside. London, as well as many other towns and cities in the UK, once had a Gropecunt Lane on their maps – after all, as you’ve seen it was quite common for a medieval street name to reflect its primary function and this particular street made it blatantly obvious that prostitution was the aim of the game.
The year 1230 sees the first record of the name and by this time organised prostitution was well established in London, though mainly confined to Southwark. As for the language, it is believed that the latter part of the name may have yet been considered vulgar, but not as taboo as it is by today’s standards. In fact, the word was widely used in an anatomical sense since the late 13th century and even Chaucer uses it in “The Miller’s Tale.” (I will let you do your own research for this one.) A research in to medieval prostitution shows that streets of this name were almost always at the centre of the town, just off the main market place or high street, and the uniformity of the choice of name across the country suggests that the business was quite commonplace during these times. Of course, as times changed so did our collective sensitivity, thus prompting the demise of such a descriptive address. As I have mentioned, in London we now walk along St Pancras, Soper Lane; Norwich now has its Opie Street, and Oxford saw several contractions of the name, trying out Grope Street, Grape Street and Grove Street before settling on the unrelated Magpie Lane. Here we part ways; as you can see from the map above, the labyrinth that is Bank station is just at the end of the road. I hope you have enjoyed our virtual stroll around this saucy and sinful city – maybe one day you will join me and we can visit the true sites. Again, to paraphrase Shakespeare, “A street by any other name would smell as sweet…” unless you were on the Sherborne Lane of old, of course. And that’s another #HistoryWithHelena Every year on November 11th we celebrate Armistice Day, commemorating the armistice signed between the Allied forces and Germany, which brought about the end of fighting and hostilities on the Western Front during World War I. It is important to note that Armistice Day coincides with Remembrance Day - commemorating members of the armed forces who have died in the line of duty and observed by the Commonwealth of Nations; and Veterans Day, remembering military veterans who served in the US Armed Forces. Each of these days deserve to be honoured in their own posts, and over the next few years I will try to give due air time to each individually – but for this year I have chosen to outline Armistice Day specifically. On November 11th, 1918, at the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month”, the warring parties of World War 1 signed the Armistice of Compiègne – an agreement to halt the hostilities and fighting on the Western Front. This marked a victory for the Allies and whilst not a formal surrender, a defeat for the German forces. It would take another six months for negotiations to conclude a peace treaty known as the Treaty of Versailles, signed on June 28th, 1919. From as early as September 29th, 1918 the German Supreme Army Command had informed Kaiser Wilhelm II (the bombastic and sententious German Emperor and King of Prussia) that Germany was facing a hopeless military situation and demanded a ceasefire be requested with the Allies. Quartermaster General Erich Ludendorff also suggested that the Kaiser accept the demands of US President Woodrow Wilson, known as “The Fourteen Points” – principals laid down for world peace. However, by late October, Ludendorff changed his mind and declared the conditions unacceptable and demanded to resume the war. On November 5th, the Allies agreed to begin negotiations for a truce and the next day, the German delegation headed by publicist and politician Matthias Erzberger departed for France, arriving the morning of November 8th. They were taken to a secret destination and handed a list of demands and given 72 hours to agree. What followed was a series of intense discussions between German and Allied forces, amounting to the demilitarization of the German army and decommissioning of their submarines. The Germans were in no position to refuse signature. On November 10th, the delegates were shown a newspaper headlining the story that Kaiser Wilhelm had abdicated and fled to exile in the Netherlands. Erzberger signed the treaty. The Armistice was agreed at 5am on November 11th and was effective as of 11am Paris time. There were 35 terms agreed to within the Armistice, including the termination of hostilities on land and in air within 6 hours of signing, the immediate release all French, British and Italian POWs and the immediate removal of German troops from France, Belgium and Luxembourg within 14 days. In many sections, fighting continued right up until 11am – at which point conflict ceased. I read and write about these momentous occasions in world history and often enjoy to imagine I was there; to try and place myself at the heart of them and ascertain how I would have reacted in the situation. Of all the eras I research, the wars illicit the most emotion from me - numerous times my housemates have caught me shedding a tear whilst engrossed in a documentary about U-boats or the liberation of Paris etc. Logic would dictate that the ceasefire would be a joyful and euphoric circumstance for all involved – even for the side who has technically “lost”. However, reports of the actual event details that reactions were muted; after an exhausting 52 months of brutal warfare, the survivors were gripped by the solemnity of the occasion – now the soldiers would return home with the scars of battle forever imprinted on their minds, waiting to hear the total number of men who had fought and died for their cause and country. On the final day of the war alone, there were 10, 944 casualties – 2738 of whom died. The first official Armistice Day events were held at Buckingham Palace on November 11th, 1919, hosted by King George V. Sir Percy Fitzpatrick suggested a two-minute silence, and this is still observed at 11am local time across the countries commemorating loss on this day. A moments silence has become a sign of respect the world over and on Armistice Day the first minute is typically dedicated to the 20 million people who died in the war, and the second minute to those who lived on afterwards – the wives, children, and families who survived but were deeply affected by the conflict and loss of so many. In 1939, Britain moved the two-minute silence to the nearest Sunday to November 11th, as they were now in the midst of a new war and didn’t want to interfere with wartime production, should the occasion fall on a weekday. After WWII ended the Armistice Day events were also moved to the nearest Sunday, thus commemorating both World Wars within one occasion – Remembrance Sunday. The Remembrance Poppy was introduced in 1921 to commemorate the military personnel who gave their lives during WW1, inspired by the poem “In Flanders Fields” by Canadian Physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae who fought in the war. I’m sure we all remember the evocative display of ceramic poppies at The Tower of London in 2014, in an installation called Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red. The floral moat consisted of 888,246 each intended to represent one British or Colonial serviceman killed within the war – and the poignancy continued in the knowledge that the Tower itself had been utilized in the early days of the war as a training ground for the City of London workers who had enlisted to fight – the Stockbrokers’ Battalion. So, “Lest we forget” these events that passed – for the very fabric of our society today is built on the sacrifices of those brave soldiers. But it is not enough to simply remember what happened, we must also learn from it – and despite all of the great things we have managed to achieve since, we have still not yet developed a strategy for peace. It is only right that we conclude this #HistoryWithHelena with that iconic memorial poem, “In Flanders Fields”. McCrae himself died of pneumonia on January 28th, 1918 – just months before the Armistice. I wonder if he could have ever conceived the legacy that he was committing to paper in the trenches of Belgium on May 3rd, 1915? Unlikely, I think, but a pleasing notion nonetheless. “In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.” ⚘⚘⚘⚘ 2016, you did confound;
The year disaster was abound, And nonsense found a place to thrive, A year many did not survive. Wogan, Bowie and Rickman started A year where many stars departed, And it continued in this vain, Too many a household name. March for Brussels brings attack, 32 souls do not come back, Again we must disseminate; Islam is not Islamic State. June 23rd – a feat or stain, Depending if you’re Leave or Remain? The year the UK became divided, Like it or not – Brexit was decided. In August Britain won acclaim, Under the Olympic flame, A 67 medal victory, For the athletes known as Team GB! November brought the biggest shock, When common sense took quite a knock, As the US chose to elect, An architect of disrespect, To disaffect and yet infect the self-respecting intellects. A prefect who interjects and misdirects the circumspect, With speech unchecked, some genuflect to this affected insect. So one month and a half to go, The “Jingles Bells” and “Let It Snow”, Before we bid this year goodbye, In with a roar, out with a sigh. But what do we move toward; Like pieces on a chequered board? Can 2017 restore united “espirit de corps”? Full steam ahead to the frontier, We’ve a lot of work to do next year. - Helena Christie, November 9th 2016. In March 2012 I moved to London and lived in beautiful Hampstead. In the May, whilst in my favourite cafe (Ginger and White) I was stopped by a man who asked if he could write a poem about me. Well sure, why not? He took my email address so he could send it to me once complete. Turned out, he was OBE playwright Ranjit Bolt. I'd forgotten about this poem until yesterday but tucked away in email archives it still harks back to the summer of 2012 😊📃✒💭
Ode to Helena Our French friends have a word, Miss Christie - You'll sometimes hear them cry "Sapristi!" Which is their way of saying "Wow!" When I bumped into you just now (Well, noon was more the actual time - I needed "now" though, for the rhyme) In my home street of Perrins Court That was exactly what I thought: "Wow!" There should really be a law Against those denim pants you wore For fear of crashes taking place While the fine pallor of your face Is such as Shakespeare used to praise In various sonnets, poems, and plays. You said you were an actress - well, Showbiz can frequently be Hell But if you make it, all I'll say Is: we've a treat in store some day Here's hoping that it's some time soon And if you're free one afternoon For a stroll on Hampstead Heath and tea For info you can google me. After seeing one of my favourite plays, The Libertine at The Theatre Royal Haymarket on Friday night, I though it only right to write about the protagonist who inspired such a historically absorbing piece.
Let’s start with the man himself – John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester – an English poet and courtier in the Restoration court of King Charles II. Rochester was an embodiment of the new era and the lifestyle it became synonymous with – excessive drinking, sexual proclivity and the general pursuit of hedonism. His father was Henry, Viscount Wilmot who was created 1st Earl of Rochester in 1652 for military services to King Charles II, including Charles’s escape to the Continent (that famous concealment in the oak tree story – though that’s a tale for an entirely different post!). On his death, John inherited the title of 2nd Earl of Rochester and it is allegedly here, at the age of 13, that his journey in to debauchment began. In 1665, when he was 18, King Charles suggested Rochester take a wife in the form of the wealthy heiress, Elizabeth Malet. Whilst her relatives objected to the match, Rochester took matters in to his own hands and attempted to abduct the young beauty – but was caught and consigned to The Tower for three weeks. After penning a very penitent letter to the King, and proving himself a war hero during the Second Dutch War, Rochester was redeemed and returned to court by 1667 – at which time he and Elizabeth eloped and were married. What started as a passionate young romance would soon enough turn bitter; the role of dutiful wife did not presuppose the role of loyal husband. In his 20s, Rochester was considered one of the foremost wits and poets within the country, and his life was divided between the domesticity of his country estates, and the notoriously riotous existence he led whilst in London. Here, the frolics and escapades of the “Merry Gang” – made up of Rochester, Henry Jermyn (1st Earl of St Albans), Charles Sackville (Earl of Dorset), John Sheffield (Earl of Mulgrave), Charles Sedley (dramatist and politician), Henry Killigrew (playwright), William Wycherley (playwright), George Etherege (playwright), and George Villiers (2nd Duke of Buckingham) – were well known and the Bishop of Sailsbury, Gilbert Burnet wrote that, "For five years together he was continually Drunk ... [and] not ... perfectly Master of himself ... [which] led him to ... do many wild and unaccountable things." In 1673, Rochester became infatuated with the actress Elizabeth Barry, who went on to become the most prolific actress of her age – as well as his mistress. This relationship lasted for round 5 years and produced a daughter – but descended in to animosity when Rochester became jealous and resentful of her success. The play has Barry state, “I will not swap my certain glory for your undependable love.” An outward zeal for living belied his apathy and disdain towards society – but a rakish charm and flair for vivacious conversation got him both in to and out of trouble. Even his, “Satyr on Charles II” which criticized the King for prioritising sex over the running of his kingdom, only saw him exiled from court for two months! Rochester’s undoing started as a late night scuffle with a night watchman in 1676, in which one of his companions was killed and he himself fled the scene and was branded a coward. He went undercover as the charlatan “Doctor Bendo” claiming he could cure female barrenness – though it is often suggested that he interceded as “sperm donor” for most of these cases. By the age of 33, Rochester was dying from a combination of venereal diseases combined with the effects of alcoholism and died on July 26th, 1680. His poetic works would immortalise him and he was the model of many a louche literary hero; such as Don John in Thomas Shadwell’s “The Libertine” and Dorimant in Etherege’s “The Man of Mode”. Stephen Jeffery’s play “The Libertine” was first staged by The Royal Court Theatre in 1994 and was adapted for film in 2004, with Johnny Depp portraying Rochester. One of Rochester’s works called “Signor Dildo” was also set to music for the film. Currently, Dominic Cooper is gracing the West End with his suitably dashing and charismatic representation of the concupiscent aristocrat; and despite the characters’ protestations that we must not like him, we are inevitably left answering his final question of the play, “Well? Do you like me now?” with a “Yes.” Let us end this instalment of what may more aptly be named #HedonismWithHelena, with my personal favourite poem penned by the pre-eminent Earl; Regime de Vivre. I rise at eleven, I dine about two, I get drunk before seven; and the next thing I do, I send for my whore, when for fear of a clap, I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap. Then we quarrel and scold, 'till I fall fast asleep, When the bitch, growing bold, to my pocket does creep; Then slyly she leaves me, and, to revenge the affront, At once she bereaves me of money and cunt. If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk, What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk! I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage, And missing my whore, I bugger my page. Then, crop-sick all morning, I rail at my men, And in bed I lie yawning 'till eleven again. – John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester "Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble." I know what you’re thinking. “Halloween was last week so why is Helena still talking about witches?” Well, did you know that witchcraft contributed to The Gunpowder Plot? No? Then I suggest you read on. Most, if not all of you here will know at least a little about the events surrounding November 5th, 1605 – the infamous attempt by Guy Fawkes and his associates, to blow up the Houses of Parliament and kill the reigning King, James I. School teachers will boil the story down to the simple feud of Catholics v Protestants – but another catalyst influencing the main players of this tale was witchcraft. In 1603, King James VI of Scotland succeeded his cousin, Queen Elizabeth I, to the throne of England – styling himself as James I, King of Great Britain and Ireland. James was the son of a lady of tragic fate; Mary Queen of Scots, who abdicated her throne when she fled Scotland to exile, life imprisonment and finally execution in England, during the reign of her cousin, Elizabeth. Mary had been a staunch Catholic but after she was chased out of her land, the regents and protectors of both James and Scotland would ensure he was raised a firm Protestant – God-fearing and deeply opposed to Catholicism and the Papacy. His fascination and disdain for witchcraft almost certainly piqued during a trip to Denmark is 1589, where he would meet his wife-to-be, Anne of Denmark. Whilst abroad he met with a number of intellectuals and philosophers who discussed with him the witch hunts taking part in the country at the time, so much so that when his sea journey back to Britain with disrupted by rough storms, he concluded that witches were to blame and trials were held to find those responsible. This was the start of what would become a lifelong obsession for James, molding him in to one of the foremost Witch Hunters of the age and inspiring him to write his own book named Daemonologie – a dissertation on necromancy, divination and black magic. His conviction in the existence of witches and sorcery leaked in to his hostile opinions surrounding aspects of Catholicism – the Latin mass, the sacrament, and the worshiping of idols - and in his mind the two soon became inextricably linked. Whereas his cousin, Queen Elizabeth, had largely turned a blind eye to Catholic practices (provided they were not public, and not aimed at manufacturing her downfall), James refused to be so lenient and simply denied any freedom of worship for Catholics in England. I’m pretty sure you know the rest from here... This persecution would not be tolerated and just two years after his accession to the English throne, a group of provincial English Catholics led by one Robert Catesby designed an assassination attempt of grand proportions. With his twelve co-conspirators – one of which was Guy Fawkes who is arguably more famed within this tale – he rented a room under the Houses of Parliament in Westminster and began to fill it with barrels of gunpowder. After several delays, the date of the next sitting of Parliament was set for November 5th, by which time 36 barrels of gunpowder were stored underneath, ready to be set alight and decimate the building above as soon as the King was in residence. But the night before, following the receipt of a letter (known as the Monteagle letter) which revealed the plot, James instructed for the undercroft to be searched – and the man we all hold synonymous with these November 5th celebrations was caught. Guy Fawkes; so near and yet so far. Fawkes was immediately arrested and admitted to the plot – though through his interrogations he maintained that he was working alone. Others were not so tight-lipped and two days later the names of most of the accomplices were known by the Privy Council. Let us skip ahead now – through the months of imprisonment and grievous torture, to the executions. On a cold January 31st, Fawkes and three of his accomplices – Wintour, Rookwood and Keyes – were dragged to Westminster to meet death opposite the building they had conspired to destroy. Fawkes watched whilst his fellow plotters were then hung, drawn and quartered – being hung until *almost* dead, then cut down, cut open whilst still alive, castrated, their organs removed and finally, cut into 4 pieces. Sickened and horrified by what he had witnessed, and what was to be his own fate, as he climbed the scaffold to be hung, Fawkes ran and jumped from the gallows; breaking his own neck. Whilst he managed to avoid the agony of the latter part of the execution, his body was still cut in to four pieces to be distributed to the four corners of the kingdom as a warning to other would-be traitors. So now you know. James I’s unhealthy obsession with witchcraft and its perceived links to the Papacy inspired a group of young men to attempt the most daring assassination attempt in British history, which we still celebrate the thwarting of today. It also inspired a man you may have heard of – one William Shakespeare – to write a rather well known play based on witches, prophecy and treason; my favourite, Macbeth. So, like the saying goes, “Remember, remember the 5th of November; Gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder treason Should ever be forgot.” Back when I was younger,
I used to have a twin; A boy, ginger, with green eyes, And his name was Jim. Though many similarities, Our main difference was that I took the form of "human"; He took the form of "cat". "Running up and down the stairs" Was our favourite game to play, And he waited by the door for me, At 3:30pm, after school each day. As we grew up we liked to read, Particularly Macbeth and Under Milk Wood, I remember Jim read 'Captain Cat' as well as any cat ever could. One year, for the Ides of March, I dressed him up as Ceaser; It was more successful than our attempt at dancing Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer! He had quite a love for music, You'd often hear him sing - Usually in an unrelated key, But his voice had quite a ring! When I'd play the piano, He'd purr away, although; His reactions were quite different When I'd bring out the cello. And when the big years rolled around; A Level and GCSE, My good luck charm sat by my side, My revision buddy. The last time that I saw my Jim, He was fifteen, and I nineteen, We ran up and down the stairs, As sprightly as we'd ever been. That day I went back to Liverpool, So I kissed him on the head, And told him, "I love you Jim", The last time it was said. I know that he had waited for me to say goodbye, His final grace in living was not letting me see him die. It's seven years later now, And I've shed many a tear, My greatest happiness would be To have my twinnie here. But what we cannot manifest, We can honour with our time, And if we should feel so inclined, We can do so in rhyme! So for this History With Helena, The story that I bring, Is a homage to my brother, The History of a Cat Named Jim. *Posted originally on 28/10/2016*
This year, I have chosen a woman whose fate is tied up in the lore of London town, as the basis of my Halloween costume; so that of course means that I had to do some research. #HalloweenStruggles Mary Jane Kelly was believed to be the final victim of notorious London serial killer, Jack the Ripper. An obscure character, of little note in 19th century society, facts pertaining to her appearance and historical background are limited with many sources providing contradictory information. Mary Kelly worked as a prostitute in the East End of London and was known by several names; Marie Jeanette Kelly, Fair Emma, Black Mary and Ginger. Various reports list her as being of fair blonde or red hair, though some point to her being a brunette – this kind of information is both frustrating but in a costume situation, liberating – and obviously my version will portray her as a redhead, much like in the movie, From Hell. She was about 25 years old and around 5”7 in height. (Ok, I’ll wear heels!) Most evidence points to her being born in Limerick, Ireland in the early 1860s and then moving to Wales with her family in her early years. She reportedly spoke fluent Welsh and spent some time in Cardiff before moving to London in 1884 and beginning her career as a prostitute. Interviews with those who knew her painted a favourable picture of her personality; though Landlord John McCarthy did say, “When in liquor she was very noisy; otherwise she was a very quiet woman.” On the morning of November 9th, 1888 McCarthy sent his assistant Thomas Bowyer to collect the rent – Kelly was 6 weeks behind on payments and owed 29 shillings. He arrived at the residence shortly after 10:45am and was met with a horrifying scene, her horribly mutilated corpse lying on the bed. The maiming of the corpse was the most extensive of all the Whitechapel murders attributed to a character known as Jack the Ripper, and examinations concluded that it would have taken about 2 hours to perform; it was suggested that the killer had more time to commit the murder as it was in a private tenement rather than the street – as the previous attacks had been. Dr Thomas Bond – a British surgeon considered to be one of the first criminal profilers – studied the body and wrote detailed notes of his findings including, “The whole of the surface of the abdomen and thighs was removed and the abdominal cavity emptied of its viscera. The breasts were cut off, the arms mutilated by several jagged wounds and the face hacked beyond recognition of the features. The tissues of the neck were severed all round down to the bone. The viscera were found in various parts: the uterus and kidneys with one breast under the head, the other breast by the right foot, the liver between the feet, the intestines by the right side and the spleen by the left side of the body. The flaps removed from the abdomen and thighs were on a table.” Dr George Bagster Philips, a Police Surgeon who performed the autopsy concluded that it was the slashing of the throat that killed Kelly, with the mutilations being performed methodically afterwards – though it was not believed that the murderer had any medical training or knowledge. Mary Kelly is buried in the Roman Catholic Cemetery in Leytonstone – but no one has ever been tried of charged for her murder or that of the other women killed during the Whitechapel case. This HWH is simply a focus on Mary Jane Kelly specifically; though in time I’ve no doubt I will try to cover the other victims, Mary Anne Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, as well as addressing some of the suspects and theories – some wise, some wild - as to the identity of the Ripper himself. But for now, I have a party to prepare and a character to re-create. I wish you all a very happy #HalloweenWithHelena 💋🎃💀👻🍾 *Photos of Helena at her Halloween House Party, 28/10/2016* “Oh look, another glorious morning. Makes me sick!” It is no secret that Halloween is my favourite part of the year; no other holiday gives you quite as much opportunity to dress up multiple times! And that is just one aspect of the season that I love – so of course, a brief history of Halloween is in order. Enjoy! Halloween, also known as All Hallows’ Eve, is an annual celebration dedicated to remembering the dead including saints, martyrs and the faithful departed. The etymology of the word Halloween dates to about 1745 and is a Scots contraction of the phrase “All Hallows’ Evening”, however the expression “All Hallows” is found in English texts pre-dating this. Many of the traditions have pagan roots, originating from the Celtic harvest festivals, particularly the Gaelic “Samhain” and Welsh “Calan Gaeaf”, however some academics support the view that Halloween itself originated as a strictly Christian holiday. Samhain/Calan Gaeaf marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter, a time when the boundaries between this and other worlds thinned, thus meaning the spirits and fairies could pass through to our world. The belief that the souls of the dead could return for one night of the year is found in many cultures the world over and families would set places at the dinner table and by the fire, to welcome them home. My favourite part of Halloween – the dressing up! – reaches back to the 16th century where the inhabitants of Ireland, Wales, Scotland and Cornwall would go from house to house in costume; this was called “mumming” or “guising”, and they would recite verses or songs in return for food. Impersonating the spirits was thought to protect oneself from them and by the 18th century, the concept of pranking those who would not provide delicacies emerged. It wasn’t until the 20th century that the wearing of costumes and the playing of pranks spread in to England, at which time Jack ‘O Lanterns had become popular and were made from hollowing out turnips. The story of the Jack O’ Lantern is renowned in folklore: “On route home after a night's drinking, Jack encounters the Devil and tricks him into climbing a tree. A quick-thinking Jack etches the sign of the cross into the bark, thus trapping the Devil. Jack strikes a bargain that Satan can never claim his soul. After a life of sin, drink, and mendacity, Jack is refused entry to heaven when he dies. Keeping his promise, the Devil refuses to let Jack into hell and throws a live coal straight from the fires of hell at him. It was a cold night, so Jack places the coal in a hollowed out turnip to stop it from going out, since which time Jack and his lantern have been roaming looking for a place to rest.” Many other characters of mythology and particularly those of Gothic and horror literature have found their way in to modern Halloween tradition; Dracula, Frankenstein, Witches, Mummies, Devils, Skeletons and Black Cats. The first mass produced Halloween costumes went on sale in the 1930’s when the holiday became popular in the US. From there, as many things do in the US, it encountered a somewhat steroids induced evolution! I hope you all enjoyed your Halloween season, however you spent it – I know I certainly did! For me, any event is made better by knowing its’ background and then being able to throw a kickass party to celebrate! To quote Hocus Pocus: Master's Wife: Aren't you broads a little old to be trick or treating? Winifred Sanderson: We'll be younger in the morning. #HalloweenWithHelena 💋🎃💀🕸🍾👻👀 |
Author - Helena ChristieLittle Welsh Sprite. A Manager of people. A wearer of heels. A drinker of gin. A disciple of musical theatre and medieval history. You can find me on Twitter under @HistoryWithHelz and @HelenaChristie4 Archives
July 2018
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